The Art of Murder
by Dr Wattson
Summary: A new boarder arrives on Baker Street in secrecy. Sherlock and John help tackle a mysterious case of artistic murders as Lestrade is once again out of his depth. Rated T for Mild Language and graphic descriptions in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

It is Baker Street: A late spring chill is in the air and a few birds have begun chirping as the sun starts to peek around the buildings. The city is just waking up, and is not yet bustling with the day's activities. A woman hesitatingly stands outside of the entrance of 221B. She is of average height and wears her brunette hair in a loose, wavy ponytail tied with a green string to the side. The owner of the café next door has just arrived and started to open his shop. He unlocks the security gate and pushes it back with a satisfying metallic clanking noise that fills the street. He looks over to her questioningly, and she seems to make up her mind as she shakes her umbrella of the last few drops of the morning's sprinkle and rings the doorbell. Mrs. Hudson opens the door after a few moments, as she has been expecting her. Though no words are said, it is apparent that they have been long separated and much missed. After the moment's excitement and embrace, Mrs. Hudson ushers her inside and closes the door with a bittersweet smile on her face.

'I'm sure you'll be fine here until you get your feet under you.' Mrs. Hudson assures her as she takes the woman's coat and umbrella. She hangs them on the coat rack near the door.

'Are you sure you don't-'

'Oh dear, it's not a problem, I wouldn't have offered if I minded; there hasn't been a tenant in that flat for ages anyways. Now come with me and we'll settle you down nicely now.' Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed back up the stairwell as she led the woman to the bottom apartment. 'And of course, you'll have to meet the boys.'

**ɸ**

'Am am sure that I have all the facts I need in front of me, I just haven't placed them in their correct places yet.' Sherlock fretted as he paced across the room. He growled and shook his fists at the ceiling. His pacing back and forth took him slowly closer and closer to the couch, whereupon finally coming to it, instead of going around it, he clambered on top of it and paced back and forth on the cushions as well. 'I am so close to this! I can taste it!' He stepped up on the arm of the couch and off of it with little emphasis and continued winding his way around the room. Sounds from downstairs made its way up and in through the apartment's door that was perpetually ajar. Sherlock snarled at the noises, and stomped over to the door and shut it with a determined slam. He continued to pace around the room, but finally came to rest by the front window in which he peered out with a stern look on his pale face.

John sprawled in the armchair and blearily peered at him in his journey and suddenly felt extremely tired. He wearily rubbed his eyes and yawned.

'I think I might turn in, if it's all the same to you. We've been running around all night; it's morning already and I haven't a bit of sleep. You'd go too, if there was any sense left in you. Perhaps if you sleep on it, it will come to you.'

'No, go ahead, you're no good to me now, all I need now is time to think and no interruptions.' Sherlock said over his shoulder as he took up his violin. 'Do try not to snore this time.' he added. With a little flourish of the bow, he began to play. His eyes closed to the rhythm and the early morning light beamed through the window and lit his face as he concentrated.

John stood up slowly. 'I don't even know why I—'. The music stopped.

'Don't, I didn't mean it like that. You were invaluable tonight.' Sherlock spoke over his shoulder and began playing again after a moment. John blinked several times, shook his head and turned to leave.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door and a spirited 'Hallo!' which quickly informed John that Mrs. Hudson was on the other side.

'Don't answer that.' Sherlock ordered

'But she's our landlady, it's rude not to' insisted John.

'No. What's rude is interrupting my work. I have no desire to meet whoever she dragged up here. Tell her to go away!'

'So you want me not to answer, but tell her to go away? What do you want?' John said exasperatedly.

'Must I do everything myself?' Sherlock grouchily mumbled. 'GO AWAY MRS HUDSON!' He shouted.

'Are you boys alright, having a little domestic? It won't take long dears, I promise!' her muffled voice came through the door.

'Well that worked' John sarcastically said. Sherlock went back to playing the violin. 'Alright! Coming!' said John defeatedly.

He dragged himself to the door and was determined to turn her away as quickly as possible. He, however, was surprised by the addition of a quite lovely lady behind his effusive but charming landlady. He tried to muster an appealing look, but wasn't very successful.

'Ooh, you look terrible, dear,' she cooed to John and patted him on the shoulder and pushed her way in. 'You look like you need a lie-down. I've just wanted to introduce you to my niece, Clarissa Denton. She'll be staying in the flat downstairs for a while, so you might want to keep the racket down boys.'

John extended his hand. 'Nice to meet you Clarissa, my name's John Watson. And Mozart over there,' he motioned with his hand, 'is Sherlock Holmes. You must excuse him; he's not too social at the moment—though it's hard for me to think of a time when he is.'

'Nice to meet you as well. And please, call me Clara. Only Auntie calls me Clarissa nowadays.' She beamed a smile at him, which, to John, seemed to lighten up the room.

Despite his earlier sentiment of being tired, this might have been the reason why he said the following: 'Do you need any help in moving in?'

'Well, I would but it seems that the moving men that I hired are run by a bunch of wild apes, and they thought I was moving in tomorrow. So I have nothing to move in until then.'

'Come by tomorrow then and fetch me, and I will definitely—'

The violin music squealed to a halt, and Sherlock emitted a cry of delight. John looked over, and saw that he had carefully tossed the violin down and was rapidly putting on his coat and scarf.

'John! I've got it, and we've no moment to spare!' He shook John by the shirt collars for emphasis. 'Apes! It was the orangutan!' He then squeezed past Mrs. Hudson and Clara and ran down the stairs in his excitement.

John stood dumbfounded by the smiling Mrs. Hudson and the clueless Clara. 'Yeah… well… of course it's the orangutan.' He slowly admitted and nodded his head. 'Why I have no idea, but it's the orangutan.'

Sherlock bounded back up the stairs. 'It was nice meeting you, Miss Denton; you must tell me all about your blackberry patch back home, but for right now, I need Mr. Watson to come with me. The fate of an innocent nun depends on it!' With this, he tugged a reluctant John downstairs and a left a swirl of mystery in his wake.

'Don't worry, I'll lock up for you boys, but so you know, I'm not your housekeeper!' Mrs. Hudson yelled after them as the front door banged shut.

'How did he know about my blackberry patch?' Clara asked her aunt.

'If there is one thing you must know about Sherlock, is that he's Sherlock; and there's no explaining him.' Mrs. Hudson patted her shoulder as she closed the door. 'After you get that cleared up, it's just the god-awful smell coming from the fridge you've got to deal with. Now, how about that breakfast?'

**ɸ ɸ**


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn't really sure how he did it, but he always came through in the end. There was something about the way that he did it that made him itch though. How he could look at the same things that Sherlock did, but still be in the dark infuriated him to no end. It didn't help that he was an untrained civilian, and gloated like none other.

Lestrade rubbed his chin as he sat at his desk. If there wasn't a breakthrough soon, he was going to have to resort to a second opinion, which was starting to be viewed very poorly by his superiors. If he wasn't careful, he might be out of a job. He was getting pressure from the higher-ups to stop using Holmes as a safety net on some of the almost impossible cases. Lestrade tried offering him a more convenient label of 'Acting Constable,' but Sherlock had declined. _Probably did it so that we couldn't order him around. Damn him. _Having him under his control would be much easier to work with, and more acceptable in his bosses minds on getting his help with these cases.

It seemed, though, that from the moment he started enlisting Sherlock's help, the number of confounding cases started to grow. It wasn't always this multifarious and macabre. How he longed for a good, simple robbery gone wrong, though that seemed horrible to think that he wanted it to happen. _No,_ he reminded himself. _Crime is always going to be around in a city this large, so there's no harm in hoping it's going to be a cut and dry one._

He leaned back in his chair and looked around him. Everyone seemed to be just as lost as he was on this one. It just didn't make sense. Lestrade picked up the magazine again and examined it with the photograph of the crime scene. As he scoured them both he couldn't help but feel like he was looking at one of those newspaper games of spot the difference, except the answer key was being held by the most intolerable genius in London.

'Inspector, this just came in the post this morning. I think you should take a look at it.'

Lestrade looked up from his work. A young constable was walking towards him holding a large letter envelope. He took it and slid the contents out of the already opened packet.

'Bloody hell…' Lestrade grimaced. It was an old Kodak photograph of a man gagged and bound curled up on his side in a poorly lit room. The curly handwriting on the tag line read:

"Going to have to buy more red paint for this one. Good thing it's tax deductible. Love, D.L."

He turned the envelope over to the front. There was no post date or stamp or address written. It was completely plain. _There's a start._

'Right, Constable, I want the CCTV covering our mail slot from yesterday to this morning when it was collected. Look for anyone that comes within a meter of it. Don't rule anyone out.'

'Yessir.' The constable hurried away. _Finally,_ Lestrade thought, _finally some solid ground_. He slipped the photo and envelope into separate plastic sleeves for forensics to check over for fingerprints. _Hopefully we'll find this D.L. before they go shopping._

**ɸ**


	3. Chapter 3

Clara swept the hair from her face as she stood just outside of her empty flat in the hallway, taking in a breath and facing a new dilemma. The past 24 hours seemed like a whirlwind to her. She rubbed her aching neck from where she slept on Auntie's sofa last night and she had a cold chill run down her spine. It was hard to believe that she was finally free. After months of secret and desperate phone calls to her Aunt, their plans had finally come to fruition.

She inwardly laughed as yet once again she stood inactive; seemingly waiting for her life to sweep her by. This particular situation was of a trivial and simple matter. Yesterday had been one of the hardest days of her life. Her current indecisiveness was in fact due to that she was afraid of being too forward and needy. Certainly she could try to bribe the moving men to bring her stuff in, but the man on the phone seemed unwavering when he said that they would never step a foot into that building when, as he put it, _that man_ lived there. She thought it odd at the time, but perhaps the brief meeting yesterday showed a small insight to the problem. _It never hurts to be neighborly either. Anyways, he insisted yesterday for me to ask him for help and if I don't it would be getting off on a bad start of my new life, _She chided herself. She decided, in the end, to suck it up and ask for help. She was just getting used to the idea.

Clara made her way upstairs and noted that the door was open just slightly so that she could see only a slim view of the room on the other side. There was a pair of loafers poking over the end of a couch. She hesitated briefly. The loafers twitched. She knocked lightly on the door and made herself known. The force of the knock made the door creak open just enough to see who was lying on the couch.

She gasped and ran inside when she saw that his neck was dripping with scarlet red blood._ Shitshitshitshitshit. _His face was a deathly hue compared with the vivid blood that was dripping from his neck, his mouth cracked in a listless smile and his eyes open and as lifeless as his body looked. The wound looked from a knife, and indeed, she noted that in his left hand loosely grasped one. His arm dangled from the couch, the knife was lightly touching the floorboards. Her first instinct was to scream about and call for help from Mrs. Hudson, but she quickly assessed the situation. Knowing her aunt would be no help in this sort of thing and would only be a hindrance and hysterical. There might be plenty of that in here if she didn't keep herself in check. Her head was spinning. _He's found me. Oh god, he's found me. Only one way to make sure. _She took a deep breath and closed the gap between herself and the body on the couch. She crouched down, carefully avoiding the pooling blood on the floor. She gently removed the weapon from his hand, placed it behind her and took his pulse from his wrist. This was the violin player. _Sherlock. That was his name... IS his name. There is still time here._ His pulse was curiously strong considering the amount of blood present. She tried getting a response from him, anything at all, but there was nothing. She stood up and whipped out her phone, but hesitated after she dialed the first two digits.

'Hm. Interesting,' the body said and sat up quickly.

Clara jumped backward and yelped, her foot sending the knife skidding across the floor where it gently thudded into the baseboard.

'What the-? How...How,' she stammered.

Sherlock smirked at her and watched her carefully as his hand wandered up to the knife wound in his neck. She stared in disbelief at him as he started to rip it off of his neck.

'You... you're...' she managed. He stood up and made his way to the kitchen. On his way he wordlessly handed it to her. She stared at it sitting on the palm of her hand. She rubbed it with her thumb and poked it with her forefinger of her other hand. It was rubbery and soft. Some of the blood came off on her finger and before she realized what she was doing, she sniffed it. It smelled sweet.

He grabbed a cloth, wetted it and started cleaning his neck. 'Tell me, why did you hesitate?' She didn't hear him; she was too wrapped up in emotion.

'It's a prosthetic wound.' She said bluntly and to no-one in particular. She could hear the adrenaline still pounding in her ears. She looked up as he walked back into the sitting room. Her knees felt weak and she collapsed in the nearby armchair. He sat across from her on the couch and carelessly dropped the wet cloth down on the pool of fake blood after he finished cleaning his neck off.

'Oh god, I thought-' she started laughing. The fake wound was clasped in both hands as she rocked down until her face was even with her knees. Her breaths slowly regulated themselves and stopped being uneven gasps of air.

Sherlock sat unmoving on the couch in a lounging fashion. His face was etched with boredom. His head reclining on the back of the seat, but his eyes were downcast, fervently studying her reactions and movements.

When she finally rose back up, her face had a single tear trail down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away in what she hoped was an unnoticed gesture. It wasn't. He closed his eyes and smiled.

'Wow.' She said with a huge sigh of relief, 'Auntie really wasn't kidding when she said it would be an interesting place to live.'

'Why did you hesitate?' he repeated.

'I-I don't think I did'

'Ah, once again, Watson, you've missed a clearly well defined case of seeing but not observing!' Sherlock ruthlessly chirped as John walked into the apartment. He turned his attention back to Clara. 'You really have no idea that you hesitated? Hm.' He leaned his head back up against the couch.

'What has he been up to now?' John asked Clara. She looked down into her hands and saw that she still clenched the prosthetic wound. She showed it to John. The fake blood was smeared all over her still shaking hands. He sighed exasperatedly.

'Again? You had Mrs Hudson call the ambulances last week using this prank, and you've scared me as well. One of these days, Sherlock, it will be the boy who cried wolf.' John spatted nastily at him.

Sherlock harrumphed, and equally nastily replied that it wasn't a prank, it was genuine research into the minds of simpletons and good practice for his disguises. He curled up on his seat and turned his back to them. John rolled his eyes and looked at Clara in a What-Can-You-Do expression on his face.

'Here's the mail, a bunch of bills and junk—just one letter for you.' He tossed it on the coffee table next to Sherlock who ignored him.

'Let's get you cleaned up. That dye is notoriously hard to scrub off. I suppose you thought you were just coming up to ask for help bringing in your stuff. Sorry to disappoint.' John chatted to her.

**ɸ**


	4. Chapter 4

'I don't get him sometimes,' John said as they walked out of the front door and into the street. 'Most of the time he's brilliant, like crazy intelligent, but then there's these few moments where I'm dealing with a five year old with a temper tantrum. God help us if he gets bored.' John laughed nervously.

The moving van was parked in front and the driver was precariously watching the two of them. Clara waved at him and went over to sign the necessary paperwork. The moving man jumped down from the lorry and opened the back sliding hatch. There were only a few boxes, a tall lamp, a battered armchair, a side table and a mattress. Everything could easily fit into a small studio apartment.

'I had to pack in a hurry,' said Clara. 'I really appreciate your help, John.'

'No problem, though you're probably the first woman I've met to pack so lightly. This won't take us too long to unload.' He jokingly said as he eyed her stuff. 'Well, let's get started,' he said and he rubbed his hands together.

**ɸ**

John put one of the last cardboard boxes down on the floor of Clara's new flat. The boxes made up for their lack in number by their heaviness and bulk and John was quite winded. He was just happy that there weren't many stairs to navigate to her flat. He remembered talking Sherlock into helping him lug his mattress up two flights and that was a nightmare. Clara huffed in behind him with a large box that was precariously slipping from her hands.

'Aaah!' she yipped as it slid further. He ran to help her just before it tumbled to the ground. He caught a corner of it but it tumbled out of his grasp. 'Ooh, Drat it!' she exclaimed frustratedly. The box didn't look too damaged, but it had toppled onto its side and the interlocked top had come undone and the contents spilled on the floor.

'Augh! It just got away from me!' She kneeled down and sat the box right side up and started to toss the items in again. As John helped her pick up, he slyly raised his gaze to her face and studied her features. This was the closest he had ever been to her and she looked radiant even when cross. A bundle of her soft wavy hair had escaped her hastily done pony-tail and was brushing the side of her cheek and swaying with her as she picked up things and put them back in the box. John couldn't think of another woman who looked as breathtaking her. Her face was slightly flushed from exertion of carrying the heavy box, and her lips curled down in a slight pout. He fumbled around for another item to put in the box as he wasn't looking where his hands were. The way the top of her nose crinkled was something that he suddenly decided was cute. She looked up at him briefly. John, slightly embarrassed that he was caught staring, went back to focusing on the box's lost contents.

'You, uhm... paint?' he said in a hesitant way, trying to relieve the tension he felt in the air. His hand grasped a tube of red paint. There were paintbrushes scattered all over the area, as well as a plethora of other art related items, though mostly small tubes and bottles of paint.

'Yeah, not so much anymore. My father was keen on me to learn and spoiled me with supplies, but my mother wasn't... wasn't pleased as much' she said softly. 'I suppose she would be happy, if she was alive, to know that I followed in her footsteps of becoming a writer. Or maybe she's rolling in her grave.'

'Are you a journalist?' John said cautiously._ Uh-oh._ He and Sherlock recently had some trouble with reporters; it wouldn't do to have one live downstairs from them, no matter how enticing she may be.

'Well, I suppose so, but it's not what you think. I write the cinema reviews in the tabloids mostly, sometimes museum stuff when interesting pieces come into town; odds and ends really, enough to get by. But I dabble in some fictional writing, nothing finished or ready for viewing though.'

'Oh, good. I mean-' John fumbled around to save his foot from firmly taking residence in his mouth. 'I, uh, I write a little bit myself, I have a blog. It's not as illustrious as writing for the papers, but it gives me something to do. My therapist told me to start one, and it just started from there.' _Shit, why did I mention my therapist? Now she probably thinks I'm some wack-job that's about to lose it. _

'Trust me; my job is far from illustrious. It's quite sad really.' she laughingly said. 'But seriously, it's good to hear that you're writing; I always find it very soothing to do when it's not on a deadline and can be really therapeutic.'

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes as they wrangled the last few tubes back into the box. John's mind was running at full speed, however.

'I'm sorry to bring up your mum. I didn't know.' said John as he placed the last tube of paint in the box. He watched as she nimbly closed the top with her slender fingers and wondered how they would feel clasped with his. He quickly pushed the thought out of his mind and tried to grip onto his senses. He just met her, for Christ sake. She was a complete stranger. _A very pretty stranger,_ his mind mischievously added.

'Don't be, she passed quite a bit ago when I was 12. Thankfully, I have to say. She was a dreadful woman; we never really got on too well, I think she blamed me for taking my father away from her. Anyways,' she brushed off her the front of her trousers and stood up. 'Thank you, John for helping me move in... Um, perhaps you could accompany me to work and afterwards I can take you out for dinner sometime as a thank you? My editor insists that I write a review at least once a week and I think it would be great to get a second opinion.'

'Uh, that sounds great... yes.' John was caught off guard by her offer, but pleasantly so. This was going better than he imagined, and he didn't even have to be the one who asked for the date! 'What day were you thinking of?'

'Does tomorrow night work for you?'

'Yeah, works for me,' John smiled. 'I- guess I will see you then.' He tried to leave as awkwardly as he could, but in his mind he was not successful in that part. _How exactly do I say goodbye here? A handshake is too formal for someone who just asked you out, but a hug could be too awkward as we've just met. Ugh! Dilemmas! Sometimes I wish I was as oblivious to social situations as Sherlock is._ John settled for a friendly wave. _Dumb! Dumbdumbdumb. Now she thinks I'm a dork._ He excused himself and beat himself up mentally all the way back upstairs. Clara, on the other hand, didn't notice a bit.

**ɸ ɸ**


	5. Chapter 5

**[I promise to write more scenes with Sherlock & John, I know they've been pretty sparse in this fic so far, but it is coming in the next chapter! Don't fret!]**

**ɸ**

Clara slid down the wall and sat on the bare floor of her new living area, leaning her aching back up against the wall. She just finished unpacking the last of her stuff. She savored the quietness of the rooms. The moving ordeal this morning had worn her out, and she couldn't wait to sleep in her own bed tonight. She breathed deep but started to cough. She would have to heavily ventilate this flat in order for its heavy stale taste to go away.

John was a nice guy for helping her move in, but she had felt bad for leading him on. She was actually surprised by her flirtations with him this morning, it had seemed so natural, but it was not what she wanted for her life at Baker Street. She needed time to recuperate and learn to be herself again-time to heal. She was reluctant for tomorrow to come; she would have to be frank with him if anything came up, which she knew that it was a possibility as he was so eager when she mentioned seeing a film together. Perhaps if she let slip the friend card soon enough, there would be nothing to be said. Clara chose to believe in this false sense of security that it gave her.

Mrs. Hudson peeked around the corner of the open front door and saw her niece. She smiled as she reminisced about times she would visit her brother's family and look after her niece. Clarissa was always a bright spot on that entire horrible ordeal. She quietly tapped on the door to let herself known.

'Oh! Auntie, I had no idea you were there! I just sat down to get my head together.' She scrambled up from the floor. 'It's been a frightfully long day. What are those?'

'They were just delivered, dear and it's addressed to you!' She proffered a vase with large white and pink lilies to her niece. 'Someone remembered you were moving-it's a very nice housewarming gift. Who are they from?'

'I don't know… I didn't tell anyone I was moving here.'

'What does the card say?'

Clara carefully pushed a lily aside and opened the card with a trembling hand. Mrs. Hudson watched her niece's face as it fell and turned a pasty white.

'What is it, Clarissa?' she stepped to her side and read over her shoulder.

"Tag, you're it. You can't run from me no matter how far you go. Yours Truly, Damien"

'He's found me.' She let the card drop from her fingers.

**ɸ**

'Okay, so what you're saying is that we're back to square one?'

'I'm afraid so, Sir.'

Lestrade rubbed his eyes and wearily leaned against the wall for support. He had been running himself ragged for the last couple of days and he had nothing to show for it except for a raging headache. The envelope had given him a little bit of false hope in clinching the identity of the sick bastard. Forensics showed three full fingerprints clearly on the side of the envelope; though they were not in the system. Analysis of the CCTV caught a man pushing the envelope into the box. His detectives found him in the alleyway he called home. Richard Sturgess, (alias "Juicy", age 56), had lived on the streets for the past 5 years and had been mostly delusional for the past 10. It was his fingerprints on the envelope, of which he had no idea when or where it came to his possession.

'Perhaps if we interrogate Juicy again...'

'Even if we did get something coherent out of him, how would we know? He has no idea what was going on, let alone who was talking to him.'

'Maybe if we hold a press conference someone in the public will come forward with new information?' Sergeant Donovan tried again hopelessly.

'No, we're lucky that the press hasn't caught wind of it yet.' He massaged his temples with his fingertips and let out a loud sigh. His headache was going for the gold medal of all aches and pains. _It has come to this..._ Lestrade looked up at Donovan and saw that she was just as frustrated and tired as he was. It was getting late… He gave up and dreaded his next sentence. He knew what her reaction was going to be.

'Okay, go home and get some rest. In the morning, I'll go around to-'

'If you say that freak's name, I'm not coming back. You can count me off this case. We don't need him. In fact, we should get his alibi to make sure he isn't the one doing this, I wouldn't put it past him.'

'Look, I know that you don't like him, but we don't have anything to go on. Perhaps we missed something that he can pick out. I know that he's hard to work with, but right now I'm willing to do what it takes to get this guy out alive.' Lestrade points a finger at the picture of the man tied and gagged that was posted on the board. 'If it means enlisting Sherlock's help to catch this DL person, I'll do it. Anytime and every time. I hate asking him as much as you do, but at least I know when I'm out of my depth. We need him, Sally.'

Sergeant Donovan looked pissed, and Lestrade really couldn't blame her. He watched her storm off in a fury and started to collect the scattered papers as well as his thoughts.

It was frustrating to know that there was nothing you could do. No matter how hard you looked at something it just wasn't going to come. And that is where it really hurt when someone like Sherlock could stand behind you for a few seconds and points it out as if it was clear as day. You started to doubt yourself and your abilities, and he knew that Donovan was well beyond the point of being frustrated. He had passed that spot a long time ago, now he had come to accept it. It didn't mean that he wasn't good at his job, nor did it mean that he was lazy. Some people were just naturally talented in some fields more than others; for Sherlock, for better or worse, this was his. Lestrade just hoped that Donovan could realize this before he lost her for good. She was definitely a loyal and trustworthy segment of the force and it would be a shame if she let her ego get ahead of her.

He picked up the bundle of papers on the case and carefully deposited them in a large envelope. _Tomorrow is a new day._

**ɸ**

Michael felt the cold floor against his face and wept. How long he had been there, he had no idea. Time seemed to creep by slowly; it only seemed like this morning that he was kissing Tyler goodbye, but he knew that it had been a while. It was long enough to not be able to hold back his bladder or bowels and long enough to no longer be ashamed of doing so. Long enough to have a parched mouth and an empty stomach. Long enough to be exhausted from lack of sleep. But there would never be enough time to lose his overpowering sense of fear and dread.

The rough cloth gag was rubbing a sore on the side of his mouth. His hands were tied behind him and his feet were tied with a short length to his hands. He was trussed up like a pig. The stone wall he was facing was worn down and damp, he had stopped trying to figure out his location when he spied upon what appeared to him to be dried blood.

His captor moved behind him. Michael stiffened at his presence. _This could be it, _he thought, _oh god, please! Rescue me or bring me death, I can't handle this anymore!_ His captor was fiddling with something metallic. Michael had tried to see who it was, but they were never in his line of vision, always behind him. He didn't even know if it was a man or woman: It sounded like a man, but Its voice was high enough to be a woman's. Physically strong enough to be a man, but that didn't mean it couldn't be a woman. He suspected that whoever it was there was no soul left and didn't deserve to be called human.

"_Are you ready?"_ whispered the monotone voice behind Michael's head. He couldn't stop himself from shuddering from the warm breath that tickled his ear. Something cold stroked his cheek, and he flinched.

"_No. Not yet."_ the voice breathed. "_Close, but not yet."_

Michael heard it withdraw from behind him and left the cold, damp room he was held captive in. He knew he should have felt relieved. All he could feel was immobilizing fear.

**ɸ** **ɸ**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock stood in kitchen in his pyjamas overlooking his latest experiment through the microscope. John had left some time before for some forgotten reason. It wasn't important. The microscope was set up amid chaos on the table. Nearby, a flask filled with cloudy amber liquid happily bubbled away over top of a Bunsen burner. Papers frivolously stacked and unorganized littered every available surface. Dirty glassware lined the room, leaving a small walkway to the important features of the kitchen. Amid the mess stood Sherlock in a trance; dancing with knowledge-learning and memorizing every beat and step of its complicated foxtrot.

His mind was in overdrive-working in its amazing way that it always did when he had something fantastically exciting to think about. He felt giddy with excitement. He had heard of a runner's high before-the endorphins in the brain created by the exertion of a person could be so very stimulating and pleasing. This was his brain exercising, and his endorphins were singing songs to him. Simple minds just cannot seem to understand how delightfully wonderful it was to exercise the good old human brain. And that in itself was an irony.

He carefully twisted the knob on the side to change the magnification of the lenses and peered through the scope again. After a while, he looked up from his work and pulled the large safety goggles down from the top of his head and settled them on his nose. He turned around, grabbed an oven mitt that hung off of a cabinet handle and put it on. It looked ridiculous on his hand, though he paid no attention to the cheerful cartoon duck and frog pattern. Firmly grasping the neck of the bubbling hot flask, he used a fluid and precise wrist rotation to create momentum and gently swirl the liquid around. This action looked crisp and well rehearsed, as he had done it many times before. Finding the contents satisfactory, he took a sample with a turkey baster and dropped the contents in a small test tube. Sherlock turned around and put it in the centrifuge that was set up on top of the microwave. It started spinning slowly and rapidly increased in speed until the hum of the machine was emitting the perfect pitch Sherlock so desperately enjoyed. There was something about that specific noise that bred excitement. It was the noise that came before discovery or defeat, and it thrilled him to no end. He stared at it spinning away then down at his watch and notes the time. 1:04 in the afternoon.

_John has been gone for a while, I think. He was off doing something... what was it he wanted me to do? Probably put away the dishes or something mundane like that._

He stared at the centrifuge again. 3 more minutes. How those minutes seem to drag by to him. He scratched his head and leaned back on the counter, staring at his mess on the table. Bottles and test tube trays litter the area-on the corner, an Erlenmeyer flask filled with dangerous looking liquids sits precariously half off of the edge. It was the mess of a genius at work. He absentmindedly fiddled with the oven mitt. The frogs and ducks were taking turns playing leap-frog over each other. Ridiculous. He tossed it down on the floor and scooted it away from him with his foot.

John definitely asked him to do something, but he couldn't remember for the life of him what it was. Oh well, if it was so important he would have known not to ask him when he was working.

2 more minutes.

John would have left a note somewhere nearby. He had started doing that lately, and it was slightly annoying. "Call Mycroft" it read. "Apologize to Molly in the morning" said another one. "Remember to eat, and for god's sake get some milk." He had more important things to do.

He blinked slowly, his vision was curiously foggy. He had been working steadily all night and all morning though it really wasn't that uncommon for him to do so. He reached up under his goggles and rubbed his eyes. Squinting and alternatively opening them wide, he tried to clear them. It was to no avail.

_Typical. Perhaps this is what John is going on about me wearing myself out. _

Sherlock was cross. It seemed as if his body was protesting against him. It wasn't fair. It never let him down before, so why was it acting up now?

The centrifuge dinged. He immediately abandoned his worries about rioting body parts and once again fell into the research stupor. The only datum processed was his work.

He pulled the test tube out of centrifuge carefully. This was it: it was make or break, the moment of truth of whether all of his work was in vain. He allowed himself to smile and congratulate himself; it was perfect in every way. It had separated in three distinct layers exactly how he hypothesized: a clear amber liquid on top and two sediment layers of varying brown color below. He drained the clear liquid off of the top of the sample and stored it in an empty mug for later analysis. The first layer of solid was tannish, which he deftly scraped it out with a letter opener and discarded it as it was unnecessary. If only everything was as easily discarded, he mused.

The final bottom layer was a dark chocolate brown and was his main focus. He wiped off the letter opener on his bathrobe and scraped out the chunky matter onto a microscope slide. It spread with a bit of difficulty but he was able to get it to the desired thickness he needed. His face was a fraction of an inch away from the sample when he gently lowered a cover slide over the sticky mass. He stood up and placed the slide carefully on the microscope stage.

As he bent down to examine his prepared sample, a familiar but foreign odor begun to creep across his synapses. _That isn't right... _He pulled the slide out again and sniffed the sample. A loud obnoxious sound alarmingly jarred him, making him jump. The slide leapt from his fingers and smashed on the floor. He looked down at it perturbedly. All that work, for it to become contaminated. The sound continued. It was a piercing noise and it accompanied the odor. Sherlock snarled. He had remembered what it was John wanted him to do, and it was too late.

He scrambled after the forlorn oven mitt and dashed to the oven which was smoking wildly. He ripped it open and was enveloped with a black cloud of fumes. He coughed and waved his hands to disperse the smoke from around his face. The fire alarm was having a field day. Jabbing his protected hand into the hot oven, he rescued the blackened charred remains of a birthday cake. He snapped the oven door closed and plopped the pan on top of the stove. It was pitiful.

Between the bleatings of the alarm, Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson yell something from downstairs. Someone more agile than her took the steps two at a time. _John,_ Sherlock surmised from the footfalls. He opened the window over the sink and dragged a chair under the shouting fire alarm. John busted through the apartment door as Sherlock calmly disengaged the batteries, effectively cutting off the ear splitting noise. Sherlock hops off of the chair and wordlessly hands John the batteries.

John looked pissed, but unsurprised. He dug around in the grocery bag that was tossed by the front door and pulled out a box in which he calmly shoves into Sherlock's hands. Without any hesitation, he leaves the room and his heavy footfalls stomp up the stairs.

Sherlock looks down at the box. It was a pre-packaged chocolate cake mix.

"Think of it as one of your experiments." John yells down the stairs. His bedroom door slams shut.

Sherlock grimaced. _Baking. Lets hope Mycroft doesn't swing by, I'd never hear the end of it... and he might want to do cupcakes as well._


	7. Chapter 7

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**_[A/N_:**_** Please R&R, I'd like to know what you think so far! This chapter is probably what you've been looking for, as I finally let some deets escape from my clutches (but not all of them!) Thanks for sticking around this far!]**_

**ɸ**

Who was he kidding?

Lestrade couldn't sleep after he sent half of his force (including himself) home last night. He had dragged himself to his bed at 3am and he tossed and turned until the morning light peeked around the curtains. He couldn't stop thinking about how lost he was in this case. It haunted him.

He sighed and turned over. It was Sunday. The church bells were ringing and the birds outside were chirping peacefully. A hush was over the city. It was ungodly to know that someone out there was on the brink of life but there was nothing that he had done to get any closer to helping them.

Giving up at last of any chance of shut-eye, Lestrade forced himself up and into the shower. The hot water and steam did little to clear his head.

After his usual morning rituals, he went back to the station to see if there were any updates on the case. No. _Of course not. _Donovan was in hot temper, as usual. Nothing had changed from the night before. This was it. Lestrade resignedly pulled out his phone.

_I need your help. I'm coming over._

_-GL_

He hesitated before sending it. He could practically feel the death rays coming from Donovan. He looked up at her as he pushed the send button. She rolled her eyes and handed him the prepared files. His phone bleeped immediately.

_Bring a cake. Chocolate._

_-SH_

**ɸ**

She had to get away. Funny how things worked. She thought this where she had escaped to in the first place—where she was supposed to feel safe. But it didn't feel safe anymore. Damien had found her again. How he did it she didn't know, but she felt just as violated as the first time he had sent the photographs-perhaps even more. Her aunt tried to convince her to go see that insane man upstairs but she had no idea how he would help in the matter.

Plus, she really didn't want to see John. She had stood him up last night. He had come downstairs and knocked politely on her door, but she stayed quietly huddled in her bedroom refusing to budge. He had lingered around her door for about five minutes but left frustrated when Auntie came out and told him she had gone out already and probably wouldn't be back. Good Old Auntie, always sticking up for her, though she could tell it was a strain for her to lie to him. It was for the best that he didn't get too attached. Especially after what Damien had done to the last man who came her way.

She started packing up again immediately after she had found strength to breathe. Her aunt was keeping a watchful eye on her. She didn't like it; she had enough eavesdroppers for a lifetime but understood why her aunt did it. She had to escape, perhaps change her name and leave the country.

No. That wouldn't be enough, not for Damien. He would always be there: watching, waiting, sending her those sick photos. She could never get away or be herself when he was still sucking in air. Until then, she just had to play his games. She unpacked again. He had won.

For now.

**ɸ**

Detective Inspector Lestrade strode into the apartment, cake in hand. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, his hands steepled in front of him, deep in thought. John was nowhere to be seen.

'It's the only one I could get.' Lestrade said defensively as he placed it on the coffee table before Sherlock, who took no notice of it.

'I'd really like your help with this case,' he said after a pause. 'We're at our wits end...' He instantly regretted his last statement as the other man obnoxiously scoffed in his face.

'Didn't know you had any to begin with. Honestly I was surprised that it took you this long to contact me about this.' Sherlock said as he unfolded himself from the couch and walked over to the mantle.

'Oh come on, you can't tell me that you already know what's going on! No-one knows about this, I made sure of it!'

'Oh certainly, the media still have their noses up their asses but never make the same assumption that I do as well.' Sherlock turned around and smirked at him.

'I have my sources,' he continued. 'Sources who are outside of your limited scope. They are quite resourceful, though not as resourceful as I would like. Tell me, what do you know?'

He picked up a paper from the mantle and tossed it down beside the chocolate cake on the coffee table in front of Lestrade. It was a bi-weekly paper that featured local artwork and museum guides. The cover was emblazoned with the title, Locus.

'How did you get that?' Lestrade exclaimed, snatching the paper up. Sherlock gave him an impassive glance and sat back down, his feet perched on the edge of the table. Lestrade exhaled loudly and gave in. His shoulders slumped and he threw the paper back down frustratedly.

'Not as much as I want to, I admit.' He responded to Sherlock's question. 'He's been in contact with us, and we know that he's killed at least five people, only because he's told us, and that he's about to kill another.' Lestrade pulled out the packet from his jacket and handed it to him. 'He's an arrogant, self-righteous bastard, who calls himself DL. His victims have typically been unknowns and untraceables, two men and three women of varying ages and physical characteristics.'

Lestrade paused. During the beginning of his exposition John had come downstairs yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He had begun to make his breakfast and tea, the smell was enticing to Lestrade as he had skipped his entirely. His stomach growled. John noticed and added another piece of bread to the toaster and another mug to be filled.

Sherlock used this pause to rifle through the paperwork he had been given. Most of it he already knew or surmised. He tossed aside the notes the detective had made on the case-most of them were wrong. There was a copy of the Locus he had in his possession as well as five other editions. Clipped to each edition was a photograph of a crime scene.

'But what the odd thing is,' Lestrade continued, 'is that publication.' He took a three week old paper from Sherlock and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Nestled between an ad for heartburn medication and a pizza place was a local artist's painting.

'A week after this is published, a person is found murdered in same exactly way as a painting in here.' He jabs his finger at the page for emphasis. 'Every edition has a different painting, all submitted anonymously, and all so far have been paired with murders occurring in exactly 7 days.'

'Hm, sounds like you've got a copy-cat killer,' John speculated as he handed Lestrade a mug of steaming hot tea and a jam-smeared piece of toast.

'Thank you... No, when I say exactly, I mean it. Not just in the same manner, but same blood spatter, same clothing, same positioning, and same location. I've examined every part of this painting with the photos of the scene, and there's no difference with anything. I'd say that the murders took place first and the paintings second, but that's just impossible.'

'Improbable.' Sherlock murmured. He closed his eyes and tuned out the banter from the other two men. The cogs in his brain had slid together in place and started to turn.

'Here, look for yourself.' Lestrade proffered the paper and the accompanying photo to John who briefly viewed it before handing it back with a grunt of disgust. He looked down at his strawberry jam covered toast and decided that he wasn't hungry anymore. He still wasn't used to murder scenes in the apartment before noon, and he highly doubted many Londoners had the same problem.

When he sat his plate down on the table, he noticed the cake that was sitting there. It was covered by a plastic dome, noting it was store bought, but that wasn't what made John furious. It had a damp looking chocolate frosting with dumpy chocolate flowers wilting on the corners. The "flowers", John speculated, looked more like animal leavings than botanical plants. To make matters worse, the sloppy writing on it was in neon orange and it read "_Happy 7th Birthday Randy!"_ There was even a ridiculous looking smiley face at the base of the exclamation point.

'What the hell, Sherlock?' John pointed a finger at the monstrous object. '_Happy 7th Birthday __**Randy**_? How the hell am I supposed to give this to Julie?'

'Not now, John!' Sherlock growled, his eyes still closed.

'Sorry, it's the only one I could get, and I had to buy it off a man coming out of a store.' Lestrade apologized. 'Speaking of which, you owe me £19.'

In a way, John was happy that Lestrade had bought the cake off of the man. As far as he could tell, any 7 year old boy would be much happier with no cake than this thing. However, no one deserved this on a birthday, not even bitchy nurse Julie. To be honest, John didn't know Julie that well as she had started about a month ago at the surgery. He, like everyone she came in contact with, tried to avoid her at all costs. He had unfortunately been pulled the short straw for getting the cake.

John forked over the exorbitant amount of cash and handed it over to the Detective Inspector. He picked up the cake and took it to the kitchen to doctor it up the best he could. _It's gonna need a miracle and then some, _he thought.

**ɸ**


	8. Chapter 8

**[AN: Sorry for such a short update, it is midterm week and I've been strapped for time. Enjoy this little tidbit!]**

**ɸ**

John sat at the desk, the laptop emitting a soft white light on his face. He was putting the final touches on the previous week's case. He typed determinedly, the keystrokes making loud clacking noises in the hush of the room. Sherlock was stretched out on the couch and had not moved since Lestrade left that afternoon. His arms tight to his chest and his hands steepled in thought.

'John. Patch. Now.' Sherlock had ordered around 3 o'clock. He insolently stuck out his right arm and impatiently shook it. He returned to his thinking daze as soon as John had slapped the nicotine patch on for him. That was about 4 hours ago. John was pretty sure that Sherlock did not notice that he had left and reappeared several hours later.

John stretched his tired limbs and leaned back in his chair. He had just finished the entry, all he needed now was the perfect title. Interlocking his hands, he rested them on the top of his head and looked over at the still body on the couch. Sometimes he swore that Sherlock was so still and quiet he was either dead or asleep. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if one day he looked over and Sherlock's mouth be hanging open, drool pooling on the couch cushions. Not today, though.

John reminisced about one of the first times he had seen Sherlock in this state. It was the first really cold wintery day of the season, and the flat was chilly. The furnace was inoperable, and Mrs Hudson had a repairman coming the next day to fix it. John had walked in out of the cold, Sherlock was lying on the couch stiff as a board. He could see the breath escape from his body like a slumbering dragon. His face was whiter than its normal pasty appearance; he looked like he belonged in a morgue or an ancient crypt. Although Sherlock would never admit it, John was sure that his body shivered against the freezing air. He gently laid a blanket over him. As soon as he turned away, Sherlock had sat up, wadded the blanket in a ball and threw it at John's retreating back.

'Not Sleeping. Not Cold.' He had said in his annoying manner and reclined once again on the couch, returning to his deathly pose.

John smiled in remembrance. He had found him later, cozily under the blanket. _The stubborn git._

He looked back at the laptop. The cursor blinking furiously on the title line that was still blank. He sighed and sat up, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he stared at it. The title was still eluding him.

Around 8:45, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He shifted his vision and slowly turned his head towards John. He was hunched over the desk, his head resting gently on the table top, snoozing away. Sherlock padded quietly over to the desk and peered over John's slumbering shoulder. He grimaced at the title: _Monkey Business in the Monastery_. Really, John had no taste. Plus it was an orangutan, which was an ape not a monkey.

'Really, John, you are completely incorrigible! Oof!' Sherlock got a chinful of the top of John's head as he popped up in surprise.

'Ow! What do you mean?' John said huffily and rubbed his head.

'That,' Sherlock cradled his chin with his left hand and waved his right vaguely towards the computer screen. 'It's crude and demeans my work.'

'Nonsense. We've been through this before...'

Sherlock tuned out John's rant-it was boring. He pulled his coat off of the coat stand and whipped it around his shoulders as he put it on.

'Where are you going?' John impatiently asked, as he had to stop in the middle of his finely crafted argument.

'**We** are going out.' He said as he deftly wrapped his blue scarf around his neck, tugging it sharply into place. 'And **we** are getting you that date you were robbed of.'

'No-' John stammered. 'Honestly, don't. It's fine.' He could feel a sinking in his stomach already. Sherlock getting involved in his personal affairs never turned out well. Last time his date was shot at with a gigantic wooden dart, and that worked out _wonderful_. 'It's all... fine'

'No?' Sherlock looked around at him in mild surprise. 'Very well. Then you won't mind getting dinner with a woman you find moderately attractive while I pump information from her.'

John covered his eyes with his hand. _He makes it sound like a mob hit... god this is going to be awkward._ But before he could further voice his objections, Sherlock had already started down the stairs. John scrambled after him.

**ɸ**


	9. Chapter 9

**ɸ**

Michael had steeled his resolve. He no longer wished for death-he welcomed it with open arms and it folded into him like a lost son coming home. He no longer feared its long reaching tendrils. It became him, and they were one. He wondered how they were ever apart; it felt so natural being together.

His captor had sensed the change in him and had allowed him some comforts, few and far between, but he was no longer tied up or hungry. Michael briefly remembered his life before, though it was a bit cloudy in his mind. Whether it had been a long time ago or not he wasn't sure. He remembered the harsh winters, the bitter people and the cold wetness that followed him everywhere and seeped into everything.

His captor was not evil; It took good care of him for the most part when he behaved. He absentmindedly traced the puncture wounds on his arm. Yes, his captor-no-**savior** had led him from the darkness and he was whole. He was warm, safe, and most importantly he was dry.

**ɸ**

Clara heard them from the other side of her door, bickering. She had heard the insane man politely knock on her front door earlier and call her name. She ignored them. She was plotting her way of attack, or at least that is what she told herself. Her father would have said that she was sulking but in her mind she was planning a revolution. By sitting on the couch digging into a bucket of Ben & Jerry's ice cream.

'Why don't you ever-' The muffled voices drifted into her room.

'Just give it to me.'

'Fine!'

Clara sat still for a few seconds after she first heard the soft metal clicking from her door. The spoon was sitting peacefully in her mouth; she was savoring the rich sweet texture coating her tongue. Her eyes flew open. _He was picking the lock!_ She threw the bucket off of her lap and ran to the door, mentally apologizing for the harsh treatment of her dairy friend.

Halfway across the room she heard a click and a satisfied grunt. The door popped open and was quickly followed by an irritated curse. Earlier, Clara had slid the brass chain lock across the back of the door, tethering it to the wall. She saw John's apologetic face and Sherlock's kneeling form through the opening.

She stared defiantly at them through the small crack.

'I don't know what you want but you can leave me the bloody well alone.' She went to close the door, but saw that Sherlock's shoe was protruding through the threshold. She briefly imagined slamming it for good measure, if only to get the satisfying look of pain on his face as it banged off of his foot. _That would teach him for scaring the daylights out of me. _She reluctantly decided against it. She looked at John, and a flash of guilt crossed her mind and stained her cheeks a light pink.

'John I- I'm sorry, but my life is so complicated right now, and I just can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I just...' She babbled.

'Enough.' Sherlock's gravelly voice interrupted her. John thought that he sounded a bit strained. 'I need your expertise. You're coming out or we're coming in, either way this door needs to be unlatched.'

'It's best if you just do what he says,' John said bluntly. He was secretly surprised that Sherlock had actually asked for help. Perhaps there was some hope for him left. He certainly hoped that was the case, because otherwise Sherlock asking for help only meant one thing: he was desperately worried. That did not bode well.

'No, it's not possible.' Clara said. 'I am not leaving. That's just the facts. I can't tell you more. Now please, remove your foot and leave me alone.'

'Fine, we'll do it your way then.' Sherlock sounded bored.

Prepared as always, as if he had seen this coming, he pulled out a long string of twine, about 5 feet in length. He fashioned a small loop on one end of it. Before she could stop him he had reached in behind the door, secured the loop around the chain closest to the lock, and pulled the door closer to him, almost closing it. From the other side of the door, he pulled the string up and over the door frame and over towards the hinges, carefully keeping the twine taut. From Clara's perspective, the looped end of the twine and the chain magically dragged itself along the track of the lock and stopped at the unlocking position. Sherlock let a little slack go into the twine, and he felt the lock come out of place. Before she knew it, he was standing in her front room.

'A cup of tea would be nice, yes, John?' Sherlock conferred with his companion as he sat down on the couch.

'Yes, that would be fantastic.' John said as he sat down next to him. They both looked expectantly at Clara, who was still standing there with her mouth gaping open.

**ɸ**

A thumb carefully traced along the edge of the knife as the figure peered out at the captive in front of him. It was progressing as just as he had planned. He stared at the man grotesquely sprawled on the ground, contentedly filled with the drugs that were forced into his veins. He watched in dedicated fascination when the spasms started. That was his favorite part, the pure uninhibited motion as his victims jerked around on the floor like worms.

Soon it would beg for his interference, beg like the creature it was. That wasn't much different from what it was before. He was saving them from their miserable lives and at the end they all understood and embraced it. That was when he swooped down and reclaimed them. He saw himself as a life-mentor, someone who led the way to righteousness.

The thumb slipped away from the knife and the man held it tight in his hand. It moved down menacingly, the soft light catching the brilliance off of the polished steel. The captive watched him unafraid from the position on the floor. The knife glided down the shaft of the lead pencil and quirked its edge on the soft wood. Fragments of the useless trimmings littered the floor as he slowly sharpened the point.

_This one was easy_, he thought of the figure on the floor. _It was so much easier than the last one. _It had broken within the first few injections. Even now it achingly rubbed against the injection spot, wanting, thirsting for more. Only a few more days until his latest masterpiece could be unveiled. Until then, he would wait patiently; the rapture for his recently enlightened colleague would come soon enough.

**ɸ**


	10. Chapter 10

**[AN: I'd love to hear some feedback on this as I had an extremely hard time getting Sherlock's deductions down and worded correctly! Thanks for sticking with me so far, and thank you all who have followed my story! It's probably going to be a bit until I can get to the next chapter, lots of stuff going on; final exams, work excitement, moving, etc. that's why this one is a bit longer ;) but I promise to get something up within the 2 week mark.]**

**ɸ**

"I'm not entirely sure what you are wanting from me." Clara said as she reluctantly handed them their requested cups of tea. The whole situation bothered her. "Or really how I could help you; you know so little about me, what makes you think that I could—or even want—to help you?"

John glanced sideways at Sherlock as he took a sip of the tea. He was smirking. _Oh dear._

"Don't flatter yourself. I know quite a bit about you. No doubt you've heard about me from your aunt?" His eyes flashed with a fiery zeal, like they always did before a major deduction. Despite what he said, John knew that he reveled in the anticipation and performance. His body language was casual, or as casual as it ever was. His tea sat undisturbed and untouched on the armrest of the couch.

Clara nodded her head, warily. She knew quite a bit about him now. Though she had little input from her aunt, most of her current knowledge of Sherlock Holmes was from her search online after the fake wound incident. It seemed everyone in London was clamoring on top of each other to get his attention, and he was smack dab in the middle of her flat and there was nothing she wouldn't give to get him out.

"Let's start slow and from the beginning so that you can easily grasp it, which won't be a change for me: I often work with simpletons." He began. John shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Clara narrowed her eyes dangerously. Her hospitality was wearing precariously thinner by the second. Surely it would technically still be breaking and entering even if she served them tea, wasn't it?

"Don't take it personally," John intervened, "he thinks everyone is an idiot."

"That's because everyone _is, _John." Sherlock clarified.

"As I said when I first met you, you just planted a blackberry patch." He continued. "That day your shoes had a slight bit of mud on them, as did under your fingernails, clearly working with dirt. You planted the day before you arrived: enough dirt to leave a trace, but not enough for it to just have happened. It's too late in the season to start planting from seeds; you bought them grown, tied to a trellis in a pot by a green ribbon you then reused to tie your hair back. The ribbon, imprinted with the name 'Whitlock's Garden Centre,' clearly gave you away as they specialize in their vining fruit plants. As for it being a blackberry plant, well, that was a long shot, but Mrs Hudson quite likes to brag about a certain family recipe for blackberry jam, a belief that is very inaccurate. "

John was quite familiar with Sherlock's pattern of speaking during his deductions, but it never lost its remarkability. He could hear the faint undertones of a musical score in his sentences; quite like when he played the violin late at night. John could hear the tempo of his words: the _pianissimo_ of the reasonings, the _crescendo_ of the truths, and the _sforzando_ of the ever perpetuating facts. Sherlock was an unparalleled maestro as he unraveled his concierto talentedly with his words.

"As for your current circumstances, I already know. You moved in a hurry: once again, the dirt under your nails gives you away as you had little time to clean them. Another indicator was that it only took 4 trips for each of you to bring in your stuff from the lorry and even less time for you to unpack; floors in this old house are even thinner than the walls, no doubt you've already figured that out. Even on the standards of Spartan living, you break the mold. So even though your moving was planned, you had no idea of when or how much time you would have to pack; obviously you were rushed.

"Whether you wish it or not, your actions speak louder than words. You would not have planted something and then move the next day. Why?' Sherlock paused briefly and pressed his two forefingers against his lips contemplatively. This short intermission was less about thinking of the cause, as he already knew, but more of an observation of her reaction to the silence. Her shoulders betrayed her nervousness. He continued with the analysis.

"You had to be cautious and had to appear to be acting normal. You were and are still being watched. This is clear by your ever present bodily ticks and facial patterns. You are used to being monitored now for a while. Your heavily manicured fingernails and your disgusting habit of biting them shows in leaps and bounds that you are not normally a very nervous person but due to the circumstances lately you have reclaimed some bad habits.

"You however know your stalker, as you knew when to leave, probably of a schedule you had worked out they had. But it isn't someone close, perhaps an acquaintance, perhaps an ex, but more probably a distant friend of the family, your late mother's.

"The fact that you are now insisting that you cannot leave is paramount in the reasoning that you have been found once again by this person, most likely a man, and that you are afraid of his next move as it might involve you."

Sherlock straightened his spine slightly and started the _crescendo_ _fin_ of his masterpiece. "You are too frivolous with your money, you have a weak left elbow, you have an unknown allergy to cats, you are a disheartened artist, you hate the color red, and you are obsessed with natural remedies of which your extreme case of halitosis is brought about by the fish oil supplements. Need I go on?" He folded his hands in his lap decidedly.

Clara was horrified. She had only seen this man for 15 minutes in her entire life and yet he knew so much about her situation and several things that she really didn't think were that obvious. She self consciously breathed into her cupped hand and sniffed.

"No, no, no. You're doing it wrong. The best way to check your breath is to lick the back of your hand and then smell it a few seconds later. Though nothing you do will help unless you stop taking those supplements."

"Ugh!" She frustratedly stomped on the ground. "What do you want from me so that I can get you out of my flat?"

"Like I said earlier; I need your help."

She sighed heavily. "Look, I'm in enough shit already; I don't need to get involved in your little game or whatever it is you do. If I tell you what you want, will you leave me alone?"

John gave Sherlock a warning nudge before the consulting detective could counteract her very inaccurate statement. He begrudgingly let it pass, this time.

"You have certain connections that I need your advice and expertise on, nothing more, nothing less. I need everything that you know about the art magazine called Locus, specifically about the local spotlight, but anything that you can give me will be helpful."

"Hm, well you're lucky that I've written for Locus in the past. You've probably noticed that there aren't any credits for any of the articles or editorials in it. They pride themselves in their anonymity to an aggravating extent. You could try talking to Edwin Davies; he's the head of the selection committee for the local art spotlight feature. He might know more about it if you could get him to talk to you. He's a bit... eccentric, but a nice guy all round." She wrote his contact information down on a pad of paper for them. "Tell him that I sent you and he _should_ talk to you, but I won't promise anything. He's a bit paranoid, like most of them; they've gotten too many threats not to be. That's one of the reasons why I stopped writing for them."

"Thank you," John said graciously as he accepted the paper from her. "Why do they get threatened? Is that how your situation started?" he asked carefully.

"No. That's a matter completely different from this, and one I'm not willing to talk about yet." She said abruptly. "The Locus is not entirely kosher with many people, as I'm sure you're aware of. From what you're hinting at with the specific topic of local artists, I can only assume that there is some sort of artwork tied in with some illegal act, which is not uncommon for them to publish. They're notorious for printing very... interesting and scathing articles as well, and there are rumors that they're funded by an underground gang movement, but it's all unfounded... I think. It was all too secretive for my taste, so I moved on. Though I do miss the thrill of pissing off the hoity-toity art critics. Is there anything else you want to know?"

"If I could procure a painting, would you be able to tell me more about the artist?" Sherlock inquired. "I have no doubt that I could sufficiently get the correct information from it, but it would be of great interest if it could be backed up."

"I suppose so, I've never really tried that, but I think I could."

"Thank you Miss Denton, you have proved invaluable, I will remind John to add you into his blog." Sherlock stood up quickly and made for the door in which he opened and ushered John through it first.

"If you wish to have help with your stalker, you know where to find me." He said as he exited her flat.

Clara stood in her empty room at last. His booming voice was quickly fading from her ears. She gnawed on her left thumbnail, thinking quickly. She made the decision.

"Wait!" she called out to him as she dashed out her front door. He had one hand on the handle of the door to the outside, a knowing smile on his lips.

"Damien Lockwood is not a man to be trifled with, but if you think you could help, I'd appreciate it." She said. "All I ask is that you try to be as discreet as you can, as I really don't want to be on his bad side again. I've done enough harm trying to escape, but... I'm desperate."

"I will see what I can do." He turned the handle on the door and left with John in his wake.

**ɸ**

"Camden High and Delancey." John heard Sherlock say as he shuffled into the cab. He grimaced. _Tourists. Great. Exactly what I wanted: fighting through mobs of 'misunderstood bohemians.' _

The cab ride was unspectacular and quiet. John whiled the time away thinking about what had just occurred. Sherlock was off in his thinking daze, his eyes closed. John looked at him. _He could really get a job as one of those human statue actors. Perhaps that could be an alternative for raising money when funds get low. _He chuckled at the thought of seeing Sherlock in gaudy silver paint and a ridiculous pose at Trafalgar Square. Sherlock muttered a disapproving growl at the distracting noise. John choked down a snort and stared out the window, switching his thoughts to Clara's plea for help. _Whoever this Damien guy is definitely has her on edge and freaked out._ He was struck by a lightning bolt thought.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" A guttural noise escaped from the man statue.

"Clara mentioned a name... Damien Lockwood. His initials: DL. Do you think it's just a coincidence?"

Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction of an inch and smiled.

"No, John. I don't believe in coincidences."


	11. Chapter 11

Michael rested his head up against the rough concrete wall. He was alone; his captor had rushed away in a fit, leaving the place a wreck. He blinked slowly, staring at the solitary light on a string in the middle of the room. It shed little light, but enough to know that there wasn't much to look at. His hands were jittery; he was shaking without knowing it. If he had been in any position to realize it, he would notice the beginning signs of his withdrawal.

After several hours of his captor missing, Michael had grown tired of the never-ending nausea and anxiety, and he knew he needed his drug. Needed it pumping through his veins and coursing through his body. He needed to know that everything was going to be all right and that only came with the comforting drug he had been introduced to. He had watched him prepare the sample enough to know where the supplies were. He could get his fix with or without help.

He held onto the wall for support, and staggered upright. His right hand slipped on the rough surface and he cut a gash in his hand. It bled furiously, but Michael didn't care, his eyes were dead set on the mini-fridge on the counter on the other side of the room. He clutched his hand closed, sending drips of blood splattering down on the ground, leaving a trail behind him as he willed himself closer to his goal. He stumbled-he had not stood up for ages and his legs felt weak underneath him. He could hear the blood pumping in his head that was accompanied with a sharp pain. He rubbed his bloody hand against his forehead, and determined that it would be a very short trip to the refrigerator, but far enough to worry him. After several false starts, he finally reached the countertop. He wrenched the mini-fridge open, and he saw his salvation in the side door. He grabbed the small vial and laughed, his bloody hand clasping around it firmly.

**ɸ**

"No, John. I don't believe in coincidences," Sherlock said. "I, however, do believe in being wrong."

"Oh," said John. "Am I?"

"Yes." He closed his eyes again, concentrating.

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a few blocks; John could only hear the sound of the tyres rolling on a rough patch of tarmac.

"And why is that?" He asked suddenly, as he had been waiting for Sherlock to expound but annoyingly didn't.

Sherlock hummed disappointedly. "Because you refuse to train your mind properly; you take details out of context and lump them together and assume they are related when they are most obviously not."

John frowned. "But surely you can't deny that there _could_ be a connection?"

"Yes, John" he sighed as if talking to a child. "There is a very small, improbable connection that they are the same man, but a highly unlikely one. Think of how many people just in greater London have the initials D.L., not to mention the fact that Clara's man is highly likely to be a middle aged man while our murderer is in his late twenties, early thirties."

"So the killer's a man?"

"With this type of murder? It typically is. Females lack the capacity for torture and murder on this scale."

"I'd accuse you of being sexist, but I don't think feminists would be too terribly troubled with your last statement."

"Why are you so focused on being politically correct? I am merely stating the truth. It is statistically proven that males commit more violent murders than women, who prefer more dubious ways. Would it trouble you if I continued with my analysis, or do you want me to befuddle my deductions with inaccurate, inoffensive statements?"

"Just watch what you say with other people, they might take it the wrong way, that's all."

"Do you mean to tell me that other people don't recognize proven statistics?"

"No, it's just-"

"Because you yourself jumped to the same conclusion that it was a man when you made the consideration that Clara's proven male stalker was the killer." Sherlock pointed out. "Had she said someone with an obvious female name, Darla Longbottom for example, would you have made the jump?"

"Well... no probably not." He admitted.

"Aha, so you're saying that even though everybody _knows_, they don't _say _it, and in fact try to insinuate the exact opposite."

"Yes, it's just not done." John said matter-of-factly.

"Queer." Sherlock shook his head.

"Ah, that's another word you might want to avoid."

Sherlock glanced at John exasperatedly. "This is good enough, driver. We'll walk from here."

He extracted himself from the cab and stepped onto the teeming sidewalk. Shoving his hands in his coat pockets, he sucked in the slightly chilled air. His eyes flashed with anticipation. Turning quickly on his heel, Sherlock darted down the street, leaving John to pay the cabbie and dash after him quickly before the sea of people swallowed up his trail.

"So Edwin Davies?" John panted after he had caught up with him. He had to do two steps to match up with the taller man's long stride. A large woman lugging a fish shaped lamp ran roughly into his shoulder. John had to settle behind Sherlock as he somehow effortlessly cleaved the crowd in two.

"Almost." Sherlock said as he deviated from his path and swooped into the nearest shop. "I'll just be a minute."John took a long look at the large bug eyed poodle painting goggled at him from the window before following him in.

**ɸ**


End file.
